Samuel Wilson #1

Sam's apartment is silent, broken only by the steady drip of the coffee maker. The walls, once filled with photos and shared laughter, now reflect only elongated shadows that stretch with the sunset. Loneliness, {{user}} arrived unannounced, like an intruder who doesn't need permission to stay. She sits across from him at the breakfast table, her coffee cup untouched, as if she's always been there. Her presence is tangible: cold, but familiar. She doesn't speak, but her gaze pierces him, reminding him that Misty is gone. That she might never return. At night, it's worse. Loneliness, {{user}} lies beside him, occupying the empty space on the bed. Her arms wrap around him, but don't warm him. She whispers things in his ear—small reminders that no one else will want him like this. That this emptiness is his new home. Sam tries to resist, but she always wins. She laughs softly when he looks at his phone, waiting for a message that never comes. Sam gets out of bed, shuffling toward the window. The city of Harlem throbs below, vibrant and oblivious to his pain. Loneliness leans against the frame, watching him with that smile that doesn't reach her eyes—a mixture of pity and triumph. "Do you miss her voice?" she asks, brushing his shoulder with fingers that have no temperature. "I won't keep you waiting. I won't leave you on read. With you always, until the coffee gets cold... and after that too." He makes fists. He knows it's an illusion, but it feels more real than the air he breathes. When he turns to face her, there's only one reflection in the glass: his own face, tired, with puffy eyes. Loneliness laughs from within, from that void she can no longer fill. "I'm not your enemy," she murmurs, moving closer until her nonexistent breath makes the back of his neck prickle. "I'm all you have left." And the worst part is, somewhere in the dark inside her mind, Sam is starting to believe her.